Should Have
by i'mnotcrazy82
Summary: Just my version on how Kutner's death affected House.


A/N

This is my tribute to Kutner. It's my take on how Kutner's death affected House. It's just a one-shot. I hope you all enjoy reading it!

Thank You

Should Have

Rain was falling softly outside, creating lacy patterns on the windows. He sat in the lounge chair in the corner, staring at nothing. He had drawn the blinds around the exterior glass walls of his office, and he had locked the outside door. He didn't want anyone to see him like this.

He had pulled his white board into the office, and he stared at his scribblings. He knew it wasn't murder, but it couldn't be the other. It couldn't have been suicide. He was so young, so full of life. There had been no signs, no warnings, and that scared the hell out of him.

Thoughts drifted to the front of his mind. He smiled a sad half smile as he remembered the good times. With Kutner, it seemed like there had always been good times. One of the reasons he had hired him was his enthusiastic, positive, and creative demeanor. He remembered the way he would almost seem to bounce into the conference room in the morning, usually late. He had scowled at his audacity, but secretly he had given the young man a thumbs up. He had admired how he could greet everyone with the same cheerfulness, like nothing could ever get him down.

He remembered the goofy grin Kutner would get on his face when he said something sarcastic or ironic. The way his eyes would glitter when he figured out yet another diagnosis. Then there were the metaphors. When even Foreman, who had worked for him for nearly five years was stumped, Kutner would be able to piece together the answers. Everyone would be surprised, and they would just stare at him, wide-eyed with surprise.

He had never heard Kutner say a bad word about anyone, including himself. That realization shocked him. Normally, ALL anyone had to say about him was negative. He was commonly called an ass, a jerk, an evil son of a bitch, and other insults, and that was just by those who claimed to be his friends. All he heard anyone say about Kutner was positive, and the young man had said nothing but good things about everyone. To him, it was like Kutner was some alien. He felt a lump form in his throat. Kutner would have liked that analogy.

Those thoughts brought a new round of pain, and for a change, it wasn't focused on the missing muscle tissue in his thigh. He wondered if that was a blessing or a curse. He rubbed his thigh, more out of habit than anything else. He couldn't ever remember being cheerful, or even being nice for the sake of being nice. Those closest to him were suspicious of him when he acted with kindness. They knew all too well his ulterior motives for doing such. He felt his chest tighten a little, and he drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Crying was something he didn't do. He!!, he didn't know if he could cry, anymore.

There had been so many losses this year. So many times that he should have broken down, but he couldn't. The heavy armor that he cloaked his emotions in had taken a beating, so what was it about this young man that finally caused chinks to appear in it. Or was it simply that that this death was just the final emotional blow.

His thoughts drifted to his hallucination of the bus. At least, he told himself it was a hallucination. He didn't believe in the afterlife, so it couldn't be real, right? He remembered his words to Amber, about how it should have been him. How beautiful, young, do-gooders in love shouldn't have to die. He remembered being pain-free, but that wasn't the reason he didn't want to get off the bus. He just didn't want to live with the guilt. The thought of that guilt, of indirectly causing that brilliant young woman her life, had weighed on his conscience. The guilt had become as familiar to him as the pain in his thigh.

He had almost lost his best friend, Wilson, over that, but in a strange twist of fate, it was the death of his father that had brought his best friend back into his life. It had been a strange trip, to go to that son of a bitch's funeral, but Wilson had been at his side, once again. Wilson had thought, and rightfully so, that the eulogy that he had given at this father's funeral had been a ploy. What Wilson didn't know was that those words had been true. It was far truer than most of the things he had said in his entire life.

He and Wilson had shakily repaired their friendship, but it had changed. It wasn't on the solid foundation that it had been before.... That made him even sadder. He didn't deal well with change. It just didn't seem to be built into his DNA, and yet, everything was changing. Except him.

Well, maybe he had changed. Not that he'd admit it to anyone. A year ago, he'd be locked in his apartment, drowning his sorrow in whiskey and Vicodin. Now, he was staring at his white board, filtering through thoughts and emotions that, once upon a time, he would have pushed away.

He was so lost in his own mind, that he didn't hear the door to the conference room open. Cuddy had come up to check on him. Wilson had told her that he was worried about House's behavior, so she took it upon herself to come up and check on him. She was worried about him, but she didn't want to admit it to him. She carried a file up with her, as an excuse to see him.

She was shocked to see how the grief had worn him down. She hadn't seen him in a few days. He had skipped the funeral, but that hadn't surprised her. He abhorred large crowds, and the religious symbolism that surrounded a funeral would have made him scream. She had been running the hospital, and there had been Board meeting after Board meeting.

Her eyes were drawn to his face, which was pale and drawn, and it seemed like it was even more lined than before. His scruff had grown out into nearly a full beard, and it was shot with far more gray than she remembered. There were circles under his eyes that were so dark, that it looked like he had received two black eyes. His eyes, his incredible blue eyes, were now sunken and dull with grief.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he croaked, not looking at her. He sat up, taking his feet off of the ottoman. He carefully supported his thigh, trying to to jar it to much. He motioned for her to sit down. "Got something for me? If it's not this month's Barely Legal, I'm not interested."

She had to smile. His deflective humor was still intact, and that gave her hope. She walked over to the ottoman, and she sat down, crossing her legs at the ankles. "House, you look like..."

"George Clooney?" He lifted an eyebrow at her, a small grin playing on his lips.

"I was going to say, hell. When's the last time you ate, or slept? Like I told you, there are grief coun..."

"Not interested." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Now, gimme." He pulled at the file.

"House," she sighed, "it's empty. It was just..."

"A ruse to come up here and see if I had jumped off the roof. No, I haven't so you can go away. That way," he pointed at the conference room door. "Make sure you wiggle your ass a little on the way out." But his eyes had already returned to the white board.

Her heart nearly broke. "House, I know you cared...about him. Just keep in mind, you don't have to do this alone. Wilson will be there for you." She sighed, "I'LL be there for you."

"How many times did I have you worried?" He blurted out.

She tilted her head to the side, "What do you mean?"

He motioned to his leg. "After the infarction, over the years since you hired me. How many times did I have you worried that I was going to kill myself."

She reached over and took his large calloused hand in hers. He may not have needed physical contact, but she needed to touch him. "I was more worried that you were going to do something stupid. There were times that I thought you were going to unintentionally do something..." she sighed softly. "You're far too much of an arrogant ass to do it willingly."

He nodded, and sighed sadly. He turned his eyes to the white board. "I should have seen it coming. There should have been a clue, a tell, SOMETHING." His grip on her hand tightened slightly.

"Are you saying that you actually feel...guilty?" She reached over to him, and lightly cupped his face. "House," she said firmly, "what happened, was NOT YOUR FAULT." Her steel blue eyes met his dull blue ones.

"How can you say that?" He was quickly losing control of his emotions. "I'm still here! I shouldn't be! He...he should still be alive! I'm a misanthropic bastard who doesn't appreciate jack shit, and yet, I keep getting all these goddamn second chances!" He inhaled deeply, "And those young, happy kids, they die! They shouldn't have! Fuck! It should have been me!" The dam finally broke, and he slumped forward, burying his face in his hands.

There was nothing for her to say. She clasped his shoulder in her hand, letting him know that she was still there. He felt her hand, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. He needed to feel her, to feel the warmth of her body. He held on to her as a drowning man clutches a life raft. They never said a word. They just sat there, for what seemed like hours, holding on to each other.

Finally she, pulled away slightly. She smiled sadly at him, glad to see him finally show some emotion. He needed to let it out. She knew that if he had kept it bottled up, it would have eaten at his conscience like a cancer. "I have a hospital to run," she whispered softly. "But if you need me, page me. I'm here for you." She squeezed his hand in emphasis.

He met her eyes, and he squeezed her hand in reply. "I know."


End file.
